Critical Moment

A turning point. My mother is trying to “prove through” an assertion that she is my son’s real mother which, obviously, she cant do without harm, because she isnt and i am.

She is the snarkiest and snakiest little English secretary. “Computers rule the world,” she cried, over tea in my old apartment in So. Btown. (Her husband, my father, worked in eletronic engineering.)

She charms many. Often at my expense, and it has been a long time since she has done anything to endear me. She lets me stay here, but she wants a pound of flesh for it.

Tonight its my son that she wants from me. Sorry Mom. You dont have an axe to grind there. You have postured and fawned all through my sons life to pull the wool over everybody’s eyes and i have had to let it go. He thought you were his mother and i was his sister. He called me by my first name. Today i listened to you explicitly instructing him to disdain and disregard his father, and i wonder what you say to him about me when im not around.